


I Never Thought I'd Miss Your Self-Loathing

by chimericalEscapist (Adasser)



Series: Self-Loathing Chronicles [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly hurt, just some boys hurting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adasser/pseuds/chimericalEscapist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Eridan is in so many pieces, and although you’ve managed to stick some of them back together, you don’t think that he’ll ever be one hundred percent intact again.  A part of you doesn’t mind; you can handle him like this, most days.</p><p>The other part knows the glue isn’t going to hold forever."</p><p>Dave and Eridan snuggle in the bath some and talk about their feelings less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Never Thought I'd Miss Your Self-Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> (This is a rant about the setting of this fic. If you don't care about why I made various characterization choices, feel free to skip ahead to the good stuff!)
> 
> This takes place a few good (bad) years after Sburb/Sgrub was "won." From my point of view, I don't see the characters-- particularly the trolls!-- being quick to accept Eridan. The game started off with few people tolerating his presence (the person who treated him the best was Karkat; even Feferi often disregarded his feelings because he was prone to theatrics and, frankly, a little bit of an asshole), let alone actually liking him. Understandable, sure, but not necessarily healthy; with a little bit of friendly love, he could've grown up well. However, he's been stunted by continuous rejection. 
> 
> Now, fast forward to after the game. I don't know how the dreambubbles will have worked, but I don't really imagine Eridan has made a lot of progress in the social skills if he's been left to his own devices, wherever the alpha version is. He's still a little insufferable, except he also represents a turning point in the comic. When Eridan betrayed his "friends," that was when shit started to really let loose; it was all a downward spiral from there. From a troll's perspective, things were shithive maggots, but they were manageable until Eridan lost his cool. They're probably not going to want to hang out with him, if not because he's a tool then because of the time he represents. 
> 
> The humans weren't there, they don't know Eridan like the trolls do, so sure, maybe they'll tolerate him. And maybe Dave ends up giving him a chance (or hell, maybe it was the other way around, who's counting). Cue the trolls freaking out because it's a talking point that Eridan collects relationships, even if he actually didn't or even if he did, it could've been for simple survival. Eridan gets tired of hearing everything that's wrong with him so eventually, he kind of just... shuts down. And no one really catches on because they expected him to go out with a bang.

He’s a heart attack waiting to happen.  The slope of his shoulders, the way he chews on the tail of his scarf, his consistently narrowed eyes; they’re habits you’ve memorised, little pieces of him that are sharp-edged and worried.  What worries you, though, is how those little habits have dulled over time.  You’ve watched that silver tongue tarnish, watched the blade become all but useless.  You think it hurts you more than it does him.  Sometimes you’re not even sure if he knows what hurt feels like anymore, or if it’s just that he doesn’t know what it feels like without it.

When he knows you’re looking, he’s stiff; when you brush against him, he shies away.  But for fuck’s sake, kiss the boy and he melts like chocolate in a heat wave, all weak knees and pliant lips, wanting and craving and _needing_ so hard it makes you hurt.

He’s beautiful like a tragedy and it’s sinful how much that makes you want him. 

He enters the bathroom, where you’re reclining idly in the tub.  There’s ink stains on his fingers, just a darker colour against his grey, and you watch while he runs the water in an attempt to scrub the black out.  It doesn’t seem to be working.  He scrubs anyway.

You slide your legs, and the water sloshes softly.  His fins ruffle against his jaw, and he turns to look at you, his irises burning violet holes into yours.  He’s always been fonder of you without the sunglasses, says it’s less intimidating. But it doesn’t mean you don’t still know how to get what you want (him), and so you tilt your head, smirk lightly, wink.  And so what if you need him maybe more than you ever planned?

He doesn’t make you ask twice.  He’s shy about removing his clothes, tucks in his shoulders to his chest, bows his back against you, and for once, you’re courteous enough to look away.  You’ve seen every (beautiful) inch of him before, anyway.   

He crawls in with a hiss at the heat of the water, and you simply pull him into you, kissing the soft tissue of one fin.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask as you tuck his legs between yours.

He’s silent for a moment, but you don’t press.  He’ll talk when he’s good and ready.  You busy yourself stroking the curve of his spine (upright vertebral column) until he settles his nose (cartilage nub) against your throat.

“W-wrote a letter to Fef,” he murmurs.  His accent used to piss you off, but now it just makes him sound tired.  You hum in response, flattening your hand out against his ribs (vertebral struts), placed between two hardened patches of skin (chitinous leg vestiges).  He sighs softly and continues, “I hav-ven’t talked to her since…” 

You don’t tell him how much you hate him tying up loose ends.

“We all did things in the game we’d change.”

You don’t say that you’d change letting him run his course.

“I’m not lookin’ for redemption,” he argues, and you let him have it, even if you know he’s lying.  “I just… w-want her to know-w it w-was a mistake.” 

You tilt your head enough to rest it against the tops of his horns lightly.  “It’s okay to want her to accept your apology.”

He goes quiet again.  His breath is cool against your skin, a little shuddery but in a familiar way.  Eridan is in so many pieces, and although you’ve managed to stick some of them back together, you don’t think that he’ll ever be one hundred percent intact again.  A part of you doesn’t mind; you can handle him like this, most days.

The other part knows the glue isn’t going to hold forever.

His fins flutter lightly, and you reach one hand up to trace one of the spines, feeling it tremble beneath your fingers.  “What was that about?”

“I w-was… thinkin’ about how-w flushed I am for you.”  He’s a hopeless romantic, and he’s shameless about it.  You curl your hand under his jaw and kiss him, and he sinks into you and sighs against your lips.  Your other hand slides down his side until it can’t comfortably reach any farther; you settle it on the curve of his thigh as he draws himself along your body, planting kisses over your cheeks and forehead.  You hate when he gets like this; you hate the attention.  Really, you tolerate it because it’s one of the few things he’ll still initiate.

“Eri,” you say softly, and he stills, lips pressed to your brow.

“Mhmm.”  His lips hum against your skull.  You want to crush him into you.  He makes your eyes burn.

“Tell me what you like about me,” you demand instead, because you’re too busy being heartbroken to want to sink into him.

(The first time you asked this of him, he got too flustered to say anything besides, “I love you,” on repeat, like picking any one thing meant he was betraying the rest of you.  The second time, you started listing your own reasons for falling for him until he cried for three hours straight and refused to speak to you for three _days_.  The third, he finally admitted that he liked “ev-verythin’, okay, your stupid face an’ your stupid demands an’ stupid human relationships, fuck, shut up an’ kiss me before I go kill somethin’.”)

This time, he moves slowly, dragging his lips down your head and that should be weird but it makes you think that he really just can’t bear to be away from you for a second and you tell yourself that it’s water from the bath on your face.

“I lov-ve the w-way you cry ov-ver me,” he murmurs against your cheek.

“What can I say,” you manage, “Someone has to help you shoulder all that vulnerability you’re sportin’.”

You feel his smile against your face.  “I lov-ve the w-way you cut your g’s now-w.”

“I’m from the south,” you try to argue, but most people in Texas can vouch for the fact that you all can cover up your accents pretty well.  “And it’s only sometimes.”

“I lov-ve the w-way you pretend I lov-ve you more.”

That’s the one that bites, because Eridan is nothing if not thorough when he scrapes you raw from the inside.  You’re not sure when you wrapped your arms around his midsection, but they’re there now, and you squeeze him close to you. 

“Most of all, I lov-ve the w-way you think I might ev-ven giv-ve a thought to giv-vin’ any a this up.”

“I don’t,” you say, and that’s maybe one of the only honest, straightforward things you’ve ever said to him.  You know he’s not going anywhere, not to leave you.  You can taste it in his pulse.

It doesn’t feel as triumphant as you want it to when you know that you’re the reason he breathes.

“Tell me you lov-ve me.”  It’s worded like a demand, but he says it like he’s pleading. 

“I do, baby,” you murmur, pressing your face into his shoulder.  You feel messy all over.  “I love you,” you repeat, and you do, you love him so much you can’t stand it, you love him so much you physically have broken down over it because it drives you crazy how intense he is, even now, how intense he makes you. 

He’s quiet for a moment, and then there’s this half-whispered, “Why?”

You’re quieter for longer.  He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.  The more silent you are, the more you start to think he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t expect there to be a valid reason.

In reality, you don’t know which ones to give him.

Finally, you stir, shifting him on top of you so that you can see his face.  “You know what you make me think of?  The metaphor I keep coming back to every time someone asks me why I’ve stuck with you all this time—and yes, they did ask, and yes, I did answer, and yes, they gave up bothering.  You’re like, you’re this beautiful fucking sculpture, okay.  Absolutely stunning.  Vivid and _real_ , so real it makes people uncomfortable.  And these assholes, they think you’re the problem, and they chip away at you to make you less real, and they cover you up with dirt so they don’t have to see how bright you are, and then they fucking, they have the balls to complain that you’re not perfect, that they can’t see you for who you are anymore, except you were so fucking perfect, baby, but what I really love is that under all of that fucking shit they put on you, there are still parts of you that didn’t get hurt.  And every once in a while, I find one of those patches of original artwork, and it’s so real it makes me uneasy and it’s so vivid it _hurts_ , but there isn’t a single thing I would give that up for.  And sure, maybe I can’t fix what they chipped away, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to scrape all that mud off.”

You love the way desperation tastes on his mouth.   You love swallowing his “I lov-ve you”. 

You don’t know if you’ll ever get him to look at himself in the mirror without flinching.  You don’t know if you’ll ever get him to stop eroding. 

You don’t know what will happen when he finishes tying up all those loose ends.

What you do know is that you will never get over Eridan motherfucking Ampora or the goddamn ache he leaves inside you.


End file.
